


THE BISHOP IS DEAD. HIS FLESH CONSuMED.

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Kink Meme, One Shot, Other, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do with a dead disciple?</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE BISHOP IS DEAD. HIS FLESH CONSuMED.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reason_says](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reason_says/gifts).



> I had made a prediction on my tumblr that based on the cherubs' chess game and the fact that the bishop in chess is the only religious figure in the game, that Caliborn would end up eating Gamzee's body. Someone following me mentioned it would make a nice kink meme fill for him. I've never written anything like this, but I love my friends and followers, so here.

You are the Lord and today is your birthday. A Time for celebration and festivities. Instead, you find yourself walking for miles, more than you ever have before, across the pewter and perforated dystopia in a reverie. 

Where are the celebrations? Where are your adoring consorts? Where is  _anything_  to mark this momentous occasion in the universe?

You spy a red light, like a distant star, and follow it, turning your meandering to a pilgrimage. You limp, still adjusting to the metal leg you haphazardly installed to replace your masticated, mangled stump, hoping to find something more suitably joyful and devious for your triumph. Is it too much to ask for a sign of the miracle that has occurred here?

You find a clown. Of all the fucking ludicrous and pitiful, demeaning "gifts" to receive, you get a  _clown._ How..."ironic."

His white and gray painted visage does nothing to change your anger, the kind that doesn't boil, but freezes in your veins, turning blind fury to terrifying clarity, animalistic impulse to actualized calculation, passion to precision.

He smiles lazily, eyes half-lidded. Some would call him serene, but in that purple jester's garb with butterfly wings, an attention-arresting codpiece, and troll horns, you would call him a nuisance. One which you would eliminate without a second thought.

You shoot him, over and over and over without end, your face never changing as the ludicrous, capricious minstrel flails in pain, purple blood splattering across his face, bits of cartilage and bone visible, with amethyst muscle pouring generously from the holes in his flesh.

The Bard is dead. Your Rage is not sated.

You approach the corpse with due reverence - none. Being able to watch as the life slowly ebbs away from him sends a thrill of power and superiority up and down your spine, heightening your senses and making your mind feel alive with questions and new information to process. You find yourself licking at the corners of your mouth with your white, serpentine tongue as you lean in.

There is a prominent, pungent scent that assaults your nose, not unlike the smell of the raw meat in your former prison that you shared with that lime-blooded windbag fraud. The memories of eating alone come rushing back as blood pools in your abdomen and your mouth waters.

You haven't eaten yet today, and you have walked for so long without nourishment.

You dip a green talon into one of the bullet holes, feeling his gray skin tear and give under your fingers as you scrape his insides, pulling flesh from bone, and bring your hand back to your face.

The meat is still warm. Cooler than most trolls, yes (according to your dead sister's "history books"), but still holding on to the faintest sign of life. It is bloody; syrupy purple lines run over your hand and drip along your forearm. You catch its scent, sweet and sugary like he had lived off of some kind of saccharine beverage, and it reminds you of your beloved candy. Mixed in with the inviting and tantalizing odour of hot, fresh meat, your stomach  _growls,_ embodying the anger and desire that has managed to churn within you.

A feast is always a sign of a good celebration.

You lick at your arm, letting your tongue start where the blood drips have stopped, and drawing it upwards as its color starts to change. His blood is intoxicating, overpowering, even more than your small treats and old steaks, and you let out a small, low, and throaty moan without realizing it.

You swirl your tongue around your wrist to get at the rest not on your hand - you can't let a single drop go to waste. When you get to your purple-stained fingers, you suck and slurp hurriedly, almost biting off your digits in a haze of hunger, satisfaction of an urge, old and carnal in the most basal part of your brain.

You stop in a daze, feeling your body get warmer as you remind yourself to breathe evenly. How did you manage to go so long without this? How did you ever quell this urge by looking at bodies on a screen? Nothing can top this. Nothing.

And you need more.

You drop to your knees and see that his blood has started to pool below him, purple robes soaking in similarly purple and heady fluids that make his very essence. You feel another drop of adrenaline and excitement hit you, making your heart pound like tribal drums of war, and fills you with a feeling you know all too well from your games.

Lust.

You swoop in, wasting no time in gnashing your green, sharp teeth into his torso, ripping into the gray and purple flesh and fabric in stripes. The blood-soaked and dripping material practically melts on your tongue as the chew at his insides, relishing in the inviting heat on your mouth. 

Soon, you can't calm yourself down to savor and appreciate the subtle differences in textures, the slight tinge of salt and sugar mixing in your mouth. All you care about is getting more; too much is not enough. You claw at him, grunting and sucking at his bones themselves, desperately ravenous and needy for every trace of the carcass you know you'll leave picked clean. 

Eventually, you resort to swallowing him back without chewing; it takes too long to hit you otherwise.  

When you finally realize you've chewed through his torso, you stop, panting and pupils dilated as your breathing returns to normal. Still, every once in a while a groan comes out of you, and without your conscious volition, you notice you have your hand already at your pants, staining your green slacks with blotches and thin scrapes of purple. You don't care - nothing else compares to this new state of mind you've discovered that combines your senses, enthralls you, makes you feel high and powerful and  _connected_ to something vital and real.

You wipe sweat from your brow and contemplate. Should you stay here and work on his limbs, or seek out more bodies to ruin, like an appetizer, before you allow yourself the vice and hit of a main course? 

You'll save your hunting game for later. As for now, it would be rude to turn down such a delicious meal and holey sacrifice. 

Happy birthday to you.


End file.
